


Persephone's Rising

by imustgofirst



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Crack, F/F, I'm like a tiny bit sorry, Masturbation, Sabrina is a brat, Sibling Incest, Soft Zelda, Spellcest, Zelda does math, assertive hilda, heavy pizzas, lets's blame ambrose, magic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 13:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17623625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imustgofirst/pseuds/imustgofirst
Summary: It's extremely silly filth. There's masturbation and magic and incest and terrible, truly terrible, wordplay. Oh, and Zelda is good at math.





	Persephone's Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Just. I don't know. But I welcome your comments about WTF *you* think this is.

It has been slightly less than seven weeks since the evening when the Sisters Spellman drank too much mulled wine and, instead of finishing their jigsaw puzzle as planned, fumbled their way into fully-clothed finger-banging on the parlor sofa, after which they adjourned upstairs to Hilda’s room and tried it again absent the clothing.  
  
Since this milestone in their relations, little has outwardly changed, certainly nothing Ambrose or Sabrina would notice. A lingering touch, maybe, or a secretive smile. Neither have there been any heightened emotional conversations or grand declarations.  
  
Like everything from Zelda actually partaking of dessert to one of the aunties napping in the pit, it’s an event in their lives that may now take place from time to time at irregular intervals. Equally, It may not ever take place again.  
  
Zelda is good at managing her expectations.  
  
However, this morning when Hilda bent over the oven and Zelda growled low in her throat at the view from behind (no one should look like anything in floral polyester), she realized that she isn't as good at managing her libido, at least not where the smaller blonde witch is concerned.  
  
Zelda badly wants to fuck her again.  
  
What she wants even more desperately is for Hilda to be the one to come to her.  
  
Until that happens, she will... make do.  
  
For now she is lost in memories of a rainy afternoon two weeks ago, the surest aphrodisiac she knows other than Hilda’s actual presence.  
  
The way she had goaded and taunted until Hilda had shoved her down into one of the spindly chairs they set up for services, rucked her dress up into a position from which the fabric will never recover, and pressed her open mouth right against the gusset of her stockings and underwear, too impatient to wait.

Ordinarily she would have been furious at having her stockings ripped.  
  
Zelda applies more pressure, rubbing now rather than teasing her clit. She has to stay fairly still, or she’ll soak the bathroom floor and ruin the kitchen ceiling.  
  
This is not Zelda’s ideal location for this activity, but an afternoon bath is less suspicious in her routine than an afternoon nap. Still, she wishes for the friction of sheets against her skin, for greater purchase, perhaps for one of the toys in the carved box under her bed.  
  
Discomfort won’t matter in the end, and it won’t take long. She needs this.  
  
How gorgeous and unholy her sister had looked kneeling on the faded rug, golden hair shining.  
  
Water sloshes as she teases outside her entrance. Even in the water it is evident how slick she is, how swollen.  
  
How Hilda had whispered, not coyly at all, “Is this really for me?”  
  
Her sex throbs at the memory. “Hilda,” she murmurs.  
  
The response is immediate.  
  
At first it’s a tickle, almost annoying, something she would instinctively swat away.  
  
Then it seems to press at the base of her skull, and she recognizes the magic for what it is. “ _Hilda_ ,” she repeats.  
  
It feels as if fingertips play along her jaw, stroke the hair piled atop her head, ghost over the slope of her breast. Simultaneously they push into her thoughts.  
  
And then they stop.  
  
Zelda recognizes the question for what it is and breathes deeply, consciously clearing her mind.  
  
Inviting Hilda in.  
  
The magic seeps in slowly but somehow also all at once. Zelda feels her everywhere, although she is still alone. It’s overwhelming and not enough. Hilda filling her thoughts, Hilda filling her body, Hilda nowhere in sight.  
  
The redhead spreads her legs as wide as she can, one haphazardly tossed over the rim of the tub. The magic, the force that is and is not Hilda, seems to enter her through every pore.  
  
With the magic, something rushes through her. She gasps for breath on the knife edge, can’t exhale, gasps again. Her body stutters.  
  
It doesn’t stop. It is a strange sensation, a cresting wave that never curls back in on itself, pleasure that doesn’t quite reach the sharp edge of divine pain. Thrilling, but not quite fulfilling.  
  
She is crying out, not quietly, staccato bursts. Her body twists, arches, waves of now-lukewarm water raining upon the tile floor.  
  
She bites her lip, pinching her nipple slow and hard while two fingers on her right hand frantically circle and rub her engorged clit. Her hips undulate as she rides the wave of Hilda’s magic, her inner walls greedily grabbing at it.  
  
It goes on and on, Zelda with her head thrown back, neck corded, panting and crying out wordlessly.  
  
She is truly in an altered state of consciousness, intoxicated by this, unsure where or what is reality, when the door opens. Hilda is there, real flesh and blood now ensconced with Zelda in their warm cocoon, giggling as she kneels on the wet floor and plunges her arm, cardigan and all, into the bath water. “My gorgeous girl,” whispers a voice at her ear.  
  
Hilda flickers on Zelda’s retinas, two fingers enter her swollen cunt, and she is coming. Becoming. The pleasure is all that’s left of her. She feels it in every cell, from the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair, euphoric.  
  
This is magic.  
  
A moment passes before she can breathe, another before she can speak.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” she hears herself say, profoundly astonished. She flushes when Hilda giggles, flushes a second time when Hilda nuzzles the crook of her damp neck.  
  
“Good?” Hilda asks, shy and proud, and Satan bless it, she keeps blushing.  
  
“You have to ask?” And then, because this is her near-virginal baby sister, Zelda presses dry, still-trembling lips to her jaw and growls, “Very good.”  
  
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”  
  
Zelda turns, bites Hilda’s dimpled chin, hard, and the corpses in the mortuary hear the younger witch’s squeal.  
  
“How did you learn you could do that?” she demands, poised for raging jealously.  
  
It’s Hilda’s turn to blush. “You’ve just taught me.”  
  
There is more water on the floor than in the tub, Hilda’s clothes cling to her in big wet patches, and Zelda is shivering. Hilda gets to her feet, retrieves a fluffy bath sheet, and opens her arms. To her credit, Zelda barely hesitates, lets her sister fold her into a tight Egyptian cotton embrace.  
  
They stand in front of the heater while Hilda ostensibly dries her off, but she is sidetracked first by the indention at the bottom of Zelda’s spine, then by a single curl plastered darkly to the back of her neck, and then by the witch’s mark at her temple.  
  
More efficient, Zelda turns her sister’s back to the heater as she begins to peel the damp wool down her shapely arms. “Let’s get you out of these wet things,” she says once she has disposed of the cardigan, and reaches for Hilda’s zipper.  
  
The shorter witch snorts. “Smooth, Zelds. Points for originality.”  
  
The air in the room changes an instant before Zelda’s hands fall to her sides. “Of course, you’re quite capable of changing your own clothes,” she says abruptly, and stalks out of the bathroom.  
  
Hilda can’t quite believe it for an instant, but then, of course, she does. Just because they’re fornicating instead of murdering, that doesn’t mean Zelda isn't still Zelda, quicksilver moods and all.  
  
She tosses her wet clothing into the laundry, wraps up in her warm pink robe, and goes out into the corridor.  
  
Zelda’s got her bloody bedroom door closed and locked. Hilda rolls her eyes, because there are a dozen ways Zelda could keep her out if she really wanted to keep her out, and a locked door isn’t one of them. Still, she goes through the rigamarole of knocking, of calling out, “Zelds, please let me in.”  
  
She doesn’t even bother coming herself, just magically releases the bolt. When Hilda enters, she sees a Zelda-shaped lump under the covers, facing away from her.  
  
“You were the one who came rushing into my bath,” the lump says coldly in Zelda’s voice.  
  
“You invoked me, Zelda,” she points out, trying for gentle and reasonable. She has known Zelda forever, but doesn’t yet know her in moments like this.  
  
“We both know that is being taken grossly out of context. Regardless, no one made you hang around for a mind fuck, let alone make a personal appearance.”  
  
Hilda realizes her mistake, and also realizes this is more than her sensitive, tempestuous sister being moody. (And Zelda wonders where Sabrina gets the dramatic flair.)  
  
“Oh, Zelds, no, of course not. I didn’t mean — I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to, my love.”  
  
The Zelda lump softens a degree that would be imperceptible to anyone other than Hilda. She won’t admit it, but her aura shines a little brighter whenever Hilda calls her that.  
  
“Why are you sensitive about this?”  
  
“About coercing my precious baby sister into sex acts?”  
  
Hilda with hands on hips: “Zelda. You know you’re not _coercing_ me,” the emphasis broadcasting its ridiculousness. A long pause. “You do know that?”  
  
“I know I’ve never forced you. But if I suggested, or — or pressured —“  
  
“What kind of impressionable idiot do you take me for?”  
  
Zelda stares.  
  
“Or is it that you think I’ve not had sufficient time to think it over? Two centuries. Only seen you at your polished best, and most murderous.”  
  
Zelda is beginning to look like thunder, and Hilda really doesn’t want to fight. “I want to be with you like this,” the younger sister says simply. “I want you. How could I not?”  
  
She sits down beside Zelda’s hip , and Zelda lets her pull the covers away from her nude body. Zelda is shockingly pale against the dark sheets, and so lovely. Hilda still has trouble believing she’s allowed to look and touch and taste; even more trouble believing Zelda wants to do the same to her.  
  
But there’s no doubt it’s her name Zelda cried out in her bath, coming to Hilda in her winter vegetable patch like damned intervention from the Dark Lord himself. She shivers at the memory.  
  
She leans down and lets herself get lost in the older witch’s mouth. She could happily spend the rest of her days here.  
  
“Again,” Hilda murmurs eventually, kissing Zelda’s jaw as she brings their joined fingers to her sister’s small, perfect breasts. “I want to watch.”  
  
“It’s your turn, little one.” Sharp teeth nip at her throat.  
  
“Mmm, but I missed most of the show. I didn’t even get to see how you started. Some games it’s cruel to leave me out of, sister.” She punctuates the statement with a nibble at Zelda’s ear, and both the words and the action make the taller woman shiver. “Did you do this?”  
  
Hilda’s finger traces one hardened nipple, toys with it. Zelda’s nostrils flare.  
  
“No,” she admits, voice low. “I didn’t need to. I’d been thinking about it all day.”  
  
Hilda groans softly under her breath as she imagines her perfectly put-together sister going about her day, soaking wet under her wool skirt.  
  
“About — about wh-what exactly?”  
  
“About you, Hildegard. Your breasts. Your delicious cunt. What you did last time with your mouth.”  
  
Hilda shudders. “Oh, Satan, I’ve been thinking about it too.”  
  
“Have you?”  
  
“Of bloody course I have. What kind of question is that?”  
  
“An honest one.”  
  
“My Zelda, my love, I came four times. _Four_. You were there. Is my enjoyment seriously in doubt?”  
  
Zelda rolls her eyes. “It’s obviously not that.”  
  
“And there’s the arrogance back.”  
  
The older witch glares. “Hilda, inconceivable as it may seem to you, I’m trying to be considerate.”  
  
“By doubting me, or by getting off in the bathtub? Wait.” Her expression changes, and part of Zelda truly wants to do murder in that moment. “That’s it.”  
  
Zelda only glares.  
  
“I — Okay. Right. No idea how I’m meant to feel about that. Is it — does it feel better when you do it yourself?”  
  
She manages to sound so insulted that it makes Zelda seethe. “No, you ninny.”  
  
Big blue eyes swim with hurt. Zelda heaves an exasperated sigh. “ _Sister._ Until six weeks and five days ago, you were a virgin. We’ll round to seven weeks, shall we? Or two months. I’ll give you two months.”  
  
“Very generous,” agrees Hilda in a tone that seems appropriate for addressing one’s sister who has just lost the plot.  
  
Zelda’s eyes glitter. “That means, Hilda, that you have had a lifetime average of one sexual encounter every 808 months. You can see, perhaps, why I might be uncertain of the parameters.”  
  
“I can see that you remain very quick with arithmetic.”  
  
“How could I possibly know what you like, or how you like it, or how often?” Zelda insists, irate. “How frequently you might wish to — repeat it?”  
  
“You could try talking to me.”  
  
“Don’t be absurd. You’ve always done whatever I asked, and that, I swear to the Dark Lord himself, is the very last thing I want now. I have no reason to believe you’re as interested in ... sexual matters as I am.”  
  
Poor Zelda becomes a prude when she talks about sex, and it really is adorable. Hilda can’t stay mad. Hilda has never been able to stay mad at Zelda.  
  
“Because you’ve had more of it? With more partners?”  
  
“Yes. No,” she course corrects at Hilda’s expression. “I — I’ve always liked it,” Zelda stammers helplessly.  
  
Hilda nods shyly, looks down at her hands as she toys with the damp strands that have escaped from Zelda’s haphazard bun. “The thing is, Zelds, I’ve always liked it too. With the right person.”  
  
The younger sister forces herself to resume eye contact, and is glad. Hilda sees the exact instant when her meaning strikes home. Zelda’s eyes darken.  
  
She smiles, an inimitable combination of reverence and predation. “Then we have a great deal of lost time to make up for.”  
  
Before Hilda can stop her, not that she tries very hard, she has slithered down to the foot of the bed, and her breath is hot on Hilda’s exposed cunt.  
  
“Mmm, we can’t.”  
  
“You’re very wet,” Zelda observes helpfully, as if for the sake of science.  
  
Hilda huffs out a breathless laugh that becomes a moan as the redhead nuzzles her inner thigh. “I have to get dinner ohh —" She breaks off as a lacquered fingernail lazily traces her opening. Her hips undulate into the sensation.  
  
“Sabrina and Ambrose,” she tries, wheezes when sharp teeth bite the thigh that has just been caressed.  
  
“Are you referring to the warlock and nearly grown witch who can certainly find provisions for themselves for one night? Rubbish.”  
  
Now pursed lips train a stream of breath at the hood of Hilda’s clit, and Hilda’s entire body jerks.  
  
“I think what you’re actually admitting, Hildegard, is that you can’t keep up with me.” Another stream of breath. “In terms of appetite.”  
  
The way Hilda pulls her up by a messy handful of her glorious hair has to hurt, but Zelda grins, her pupils blown black.  
  
“In terms of bullshit,” the younger witch retorts saucily. “Pretty rich coming from you, Ms. One and Done.”  
  
Zelda’s answering cackle is maniacal.  
  
Her tumbled hair looks hellishly divine between Hilda’s thighs. The younger witch can’t remember why she ever thought anything might be more important than this.  
  
Zelda, meanwhile, approaches her object with renewed purpose and vigor. Last time she’d gotten Hilda up to four orgasms, so there’s no reason she can’t coax her into five.  
  
When the aunties emerge into the kitchen at inconspicuously staggered intervals, Zelda perfectly turned out, Hilda yawning and in her pajamas, it’s dark outside. Sabrina is sitting at the table, a Latin text in front of her, Salem in the chair beside her.  
  
“Oh, love, sorry about dinner,” Hilda says, tousling Sabrina’s white-blonde hair.  
  
“It’s cool. Ambrose said you guys already ate.”  
  
“We certainly have not,” Zelda objects as she sweeps in. “I don’t know what in the realms gave him that idea.”  
  
“Well, what he actually said was that it sounded like you were eating out, Auntie Zee, and that I should let Auntie Hilda sleep because she must need it.”  
  
“I’ll kill him,” Zelda says sotto voce into the refrigerator, and Hilda squeezes her arm.  
  
“Miscommunication, love,” Hilda chirps. “I can do omelets.”  
  
“Uh, actually I ordered a pizza from Persephone’s. It’s been ages, but they said they’re down a delivery guy.” She shrugs.  
  
Hilda looks relieved. “Pizza, Zelds?”  
  
Zelda eyes her niece, who eyes her right back, bright, innocent smile in place.  
  
Well, Shit.  
  
Because the Sabrina who signed her name in the Book of the Beast no longer smiles like that.  
  
She does, however, seem not to care if there’s an incestuous sex carnival happening upstairs as long as she can get processed meat and cheese products out of it.  
  
Really, she becomes more like her father with every passing day.  
  
“I’m not hungry,” Zelda replies, grabbing the whiskey decanter.  
  
Sabrina blinks. “So you have eaten.”  
  
The older witch stares at her until Salem hisses and Sabrina drops her eyes back to the Latin reading.  
  
Zelda’s stomach rumbles.  
  
“Don’t be silly, Zelds.” Hilda dimples prettily. “You’ve always been able to eat whatever you wanted and not gain weight.”  
  
Sabrina flushes tomato red, cringingly embarrassed for everyone concerned. It makes Zelda feel enough better to say, “Well, save me some, if you want.”  
  
“Haven’t I always saved it for you, sister?”  
  
Sabrina chokes. Zelda nearly drops the decanter. Hilda smiles placidly.  
  
“Also,” the younger sister continues in the same tone, “I don’t know what Ambrose has been getting up to in the hallway bathroom, but look at that.” She inclines her blonde head toward a spreading damp patch on the ceiling. “Have to call a plumber about that.”  
  
Zelda knows she is blushing, so busies herself by taking a swig directly from the decanter, in spite of all her beloved rules of good behavior.  
  
The doorbell chimes. “Pizza!” Sabrina exclaims in wild relief. Zelda hasn’t seen her run so fast since her aborted baptism.  
  
Hilda reaches around Zelda, plucks the decanter from her fingers, and takes a sip. Ruins the swagger by wrinkling her nose in disgust as her eyes water.  
  
When she has recovered, Hilda murmurs, “Hope it’s vagitarian.”  
  
The ill-starred decanter falls through nerveless fingers, shatters on the linoleum. “ _What?!?!_ ”  
  
Hilda shrugs, smiles sweetly. “You know I prefer not to eat meat. What did you think I was talking about?”  
  
“I could end you,” Zelda retorts.  
  
Sabrina re-enters the kitchen with an enormous pizza box. It smells rather wonderful. Zelda’s stomach growls again.  
  
“That was super strange. They sent two people, in case the pizza was too heavy? And one said something about hazard pay. Whatever that means.” She opens the box, reaches for plates. “Aunt Zee, do you want sausage or veggie?”  
  
“She likes both,” Hilda offers helpfully. “But you’re eating less meat these days, aren’t you, sister?”  
  
“I hate you all,” replies Zelda as she kneels to collect dripping shards of glass.

\--

  
Shortly thereafter, Persephone’s Pizza abruptly discontinues delivery service. No reason is provided to the public.  
  
Zelda continues to take long baths; Hilda, to nap in the middle of the afternoon. Sabrina switches to ordering Chinese food.  
  
Ambrose spends as much time as possible wearing headphones.  
  
And they all live weirdly ever after.


End file.
